Some Things Never Change
by Wyndi
Summary: Jim goes home for his birthday only to find out that sometimes the past is best left as it is.


Content: Mature subject matter, implied m/m slash, language, violence, implied child abuse, severely dysfunctional family interaction.  
  
Character/s: Sandman (Jim Fullington), mention of Hunter  
  
Summary: Jim goes home for his birthday only to find out that sometimes the past is best left as it is.  
  
Disclaimer: I own NO ONE depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Inspired by a monologue I performed in High School from the Elizabeth Swados play, "Runaways." Lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.  
  
Notes: For some odd reason, I've always pictured the Sandman as having come from a horrible home environment. Both parents alcoholics (thus lending even more credency to his own tendencies towards excess) and very fundamentalist but in the most whacked-out way imaginable. Basically your stereotypical white trash family with their own fucked-up set of priorities and values.  
  
* * *  
  
It's been five long damn years since I went home. It's not a trip I particularly look forward to, but it's something I force myself to do every so often. Maybe it's just to remind myself where I came from, or to reassure myself that as fucked up as my own life has been, it could always be a whole lot worse. Everyone likes to think theirs was the worst childhood imaginable, but I know different. Not that it's anything to really brag about, but still, at least I know what I'm talking about. At any rate, this visit is something I look forward to about as much as a fucking prostate exam.  
  
It's my birthday. What better reason to take a walk down memory lane, remind myself all over again why I left in the first place? During the drive to Scranton, I keep telling myself this'll be the last time. You'd think I would've learned my lesson after the last visit when Pop pulled a gun on me. Who knows? He'd been having a bad month health-wise, so I guess I should cut the guy some fucking slack.  
  
The first thing I notice is that their dead car garden has grown since the last time I was here. The current crop is an El Camino, two station wagons, a VW bus, three pickup trucks, and something that might have been a Pinto many years ago. One of the few constants in my life was Pop always bringing home some old beat-up car, swearing he'd fix it up and sell it, and then just letting it rust in the yard. Some things never change.  
  
I see they never bothered to have the front steps fixed, either. The top one still has a hole in it as big as my head. I guess I oughta be flattered there's still a visible reminder of my last visit. A five-year monument to just how hard-headed their son is. Guess that'll teach me to be totally honest about who I'm fucking. Serves them right, though. If you don't wanna know the answer, don't ask the question. I don't know what was funnier. The expressions on their faces when I told them I bat for both sides or the fact that I had to tell them who Hunter was. Fuckers don't even watch the shows.  
  
The doorbell is hanging by a wire. That's a new one. Wonder who was responsible for that little modification. Probably Pop. He tends to get kinda physical when he's pissed off. Hammering on the door isn't exactly working. Stupid idiots probably have the TV turned up full blast again. It's a wonder they aren't both deaf by now. I haven't had a key to the place in probably twenty years. No point, really, since they never lock the door anyway. Nothing to steal, so why should they bother?  
  
I let myself in, nose wrinkling at the stench. Spoiled food, dirty clothes, spilled beer, stale cigarette smoke. It washes over me in a wave of nostalgia. Like I said, some things never change. The place is every bit the rat and roach-infested shithole it was the last time I was here. For their anniversary one year I tried to hire someone to come in and clean the joint for them. Not only was it hard as fuck to find someone willing to take on the job, but Pop ended up running the poor girl off with one of his abusive tirades. At least I made the gesture.  
  
I navigate around piles of trash get to the living room and they're just sitting there, watching "Jerry Springer." The volume isn't up too loud, so I know they heard me knocking. "I'm here." They pretend I'm not. They both know how that pisses me off. So I clear my throat and my dad says, "Do you smell a nobody in the room?" Nice one, Pop. I clear my throat again, really loud. Mom turns up the volume on the television set. Now I'm starting to get pissed off. "You knew I was coming over today." Silence this time. So I do what I always do when I wanna get their attention. I yell, "Fuck you both! And fuck me for thinking you'd give a shit about seeing me after five years!" And I kick in the screen on the TV.  
  
Quicker than I thought possible, Pop comes up off the sofa, picks me up by the front of my shirt, and slams me up against the wall. He's always been bigger than me, but it's pretty fucking upsetting to learn he's still stronger than me, too. My mom starts stroking what's left of the TV, crying and talking to it like it was a fussy baby she'd hit a little too hard after having one drink too many. My dad's still holding me against the wall. The whiskey and nicotine smell like love on his breath but at least he's talking to me now. "You're a filthy little bastard. You need a bath."  
  
He hauls me into the bathroom and rips off what's left of my shirt after throwing me into the tub. Mom follows us in there and as she's turning on the shower, as hot as she can, Pop goes back into the living room. I'm still fucking dazed from my head hitting the wall so all I can do is lie there. He comes back with a large piece of glass from the TV and uses it to try to scrape the layers of imagined filth from my skin. I try to tell him the stain's on the inside, but I've forgotten how to talk somehow. All I can feel is blood running down my body, combining with the scalding water from the shower. It's like I'm sitting under a waterfall of blood and even though it hurts, more than I can ever remember hurting before, it feels like love. Because that's what love is. Painful.  
  
Mom's pacing back and forth, wringing her hands and going on at the top of her lungs about how disappointed she is with me. No big surprise there. Pop's traded the broken glass for his fists now and he's giving me that old familiar lecture about sparing the rod. Just like in years past, it pretty much goes in one ear and out the other. Same shit, different decade. His rage will pass, he'll have another Beam on the rocks, and he'll forget he's supposed to pretend I don't exist.  
  
At some point, I don't even know when, they both take off, leaving me alone in the bathroom. The stream of water is now ice cold, the hot water heater's supply gone at at last. I should probably clean up a little, find one of Pop's shirts that's not completely filthy, and go see what kind of state they're both in. If my guess is right, they're both back in the living room sitting on the sofa like nothing's happened.  
  
How right I am. Just add a pair of TV trays and some rank-smelling microwave dinners and the scene's just like I thought it would be. They're staring at what's left of the TV as if it was still on. Total fucking psychos, both of them. Pop takes a swig from his glass of whiskey and elbows Mom. "Go get the thing." She hauls herself up off the sofa and wanders into the kitchen, leaving me standing there, wondering if I should say something before I bail. I really should try and attempt some kinda fucking conversation, since I came all this way.  
  
"Here, son. Happy birthday."  
  
Mom hands me a paper plate with a Twinkie on it. Ever the thoughtful, caring parent, she's even stuck a candle in the middle of it. She shoves a card at me and I set aside my makeshift birthday cake. First one I've seen since I was in grade school, I think. The envelope has someone else's name on it, scratched out. They really outdid themselves this year. The card's pretty bland, with no reference to our blood relationship. Inside it one of them's scribbled a loving message. "Happy birthday and maybe more."  
  
I give her what I can only hope is a sincere smile. "Thanks, Mom. That was... Well, thanks." She mirrors my expression, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. They have about as much life in them as a stuffed head on someone's wall. She's been this way for about as long as I can remember.  
  
I glance over to see if Pop's watching us. Predictably enough, I've become the invisible son once more. Who cares? I know better than to ask for something to drink. Why the fuck didn't I bring something of my own? Eh, no big deal. I'll pick up a sixer on the way outta town. Besides, I don't really wanna give myself a reason to stay longer than I have to.  
  
"Well, I guess I'll take off now. Got a show tomorrow." Mom gives me another weak smile. Maybe it's her way of apologizing for what happened earlier. "I'm sorry about the TV..." I dig out my wallet and hand her a few crumpled bills. Finally, signs of life. She quickly stuffs the money in the pocket of her apron, her eyes gleaming. It's more than enough to buy them a bigger and better set than the one I killed. That's assuming Pop doesn't find it first. It's anyone's guess what he'd spend it on.  
  
I stuff the card in my back pocket. Like the cake, it's the first one I've gotten in ages, so I guess I oughta hold onto it. God knows when I'll see another one. I give Mom a quick hug which she returns mechanically, as if I'm just some distant relation at a family function. One more glance over at Pop reinforces my decision to leave. He's already finished his whiskey and he's fucking around with the TV remote. Yup. Definitely time to go. "I'll see you guys later."  
  
Nobody walks me to the door, not that I wanted them to anyway. I take a last look at the squalor and filth around me and feel a pang of genuine sorrow. I won't be back. I know I say that every fucking year, but this time I know it's true. These little family get togethers take more out of me than I realized. I know I don't exactly lead the life of a saint. The business is real good at encouraging destructive habits. But all things considered, I can't help but be more than a little thankful for what I've got. Beats where I came from, that's for fucking sure.  
  
I practically run down the steps to my van and jump in, lighting a cigarette almost immediately. As I'm backing out of the drive, I can feel my pulse racing. I know it sounds stupid, but I always got this feeling that there was some kinda invisible force that wouldn't let me get away from the house. Lucky for me, my superstition doesn't pan out and I escape the old neighborhood once more. I breathe a sigh of relief when I'm outside the city limits. Against all odds, I managed to escape one last time.  
  
It's only after I'm on the highway and heading back home do I realize I forgot the Twinkie. 


End file.
